


Violin in the Middle of the Night

by VTsuion



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson Has PTSD, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Plays the Violin, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Can't Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 13:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: Dr. John Watson awakes in the middle of the night from a nightmare of Afghanistan and discovers that he is not the only restless inhabitant of 221B Baker Street.





	Violin in the Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chapter 7 of Tis the (Holmesian) Season](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/457634) by Domina Temporis. 



> This has now been translated into Russian by Manon Attal: https://ficbook.net/readfic/8138062

I bolted upright in bed, gunshots ringing in my ears.

I peered into the darkness, searching for men hiding in the bushes, ready to strike, before I remembered that I was safe in London, far away from any enemy combatants. My heart still hammered in my chest and as my breathing slowed I became aware that a low whine did in fact emanate from the rooms below.

I slid out of bed without a thought and padded downstairs as quietly as I had ever moved, the thought of some assailant still fresh in my mind. But as I drew closer, I realized the sound was not some droning whistle, but that there was tune to it. The ring of the gunshot slowly faded, giving way to music.

I had heard my flatmate playing his violin on a few occasions, but never at such an hour. He played beautifully, a haunting tune that I fancied had possessed him to rise from his bed by its own power. It certainly had power over me, as I froze at the door to the sitting room, entranced, marvelling at the many faces of human nature and of my enigmatic flatmate in particular. I wondered if he had been consumed by the music of another, or if this was his own invention, perhaps an expression of the feelings he was usually so reluctant to betray.

As the piece came to a powerful crescendo, I returned to myself and dared crack open the door to peer into the dark sitting room, illuminated by the flickering light of a single lantern. Sherlock Holmes paid me no heed, his long, delicate fingers flew across the strings, a deceptively powerful arm drew the bow back and forth, pulling music as though out of thin air. For all the fervor of his playing, his usually keen features appeared utterly relaxed, his expression soft and his eyes closed to more fully immerse himself in the music. He appeared lost to the world as he seemed to fill mine.

The tune came to its highest peak and then he pulled his bow away. The final note echoed in my ears, more powerful than any remembered gunshot. He held his bow out as though frozen on that final note, his chest heaving with exertion. My heart raced in time with the music. Then, he took a sweeping bow. I did not miss the thin smile that crossed his face.

I only belatedly remembered to applaud; the sound echoed into the otherwise silent night. I could hardly believe my fortune, an invalid left to the great cesspool of London, graced with the presence of such a magnificent being, not only brilliant, but enthralling. A scarlet blush crept across my cheeks as I dared wonder what it would be like to have him for my own. But at the time, I thought I knew better than to hope.

He righted himself and examined me with his customary piercing gaze. Even in his nightdress, he cut a fearsome figure - truly a man to be reckoned with.

“My apologies, my dear Watson, I did not mean to wake you,” he said at last, his voice surprisingly soft. A smile teased at his lips.

“It’s probably for the best,” I replied, remembering the nightmare he had interrupted. More brightly, I said, “You play beautifully.” 

I fancied I detected a flush in his cheeks at my words, but in the dark I could not tell for sure. He did smile and bowed his head in acknowledgement of my compliment. “I am honored to play for such an appreciative audience.”

Surely he saw how I appreciated everything he did; perhaps his calculating mind was merely too logical to consider my indecency. Still, I felt my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment at how I was so taken with my flatmate after so little time and how thoroughly I admired him.

“What has you out of bed at such an hour?” I asked without thinking - but he no doubt had already deduced my own reason.

The question gave him pause. I found him searching my eyes with his, as though there were something about me he had somehow failed to deduce. I could not see his sharp grey irises in the dim light, but I knew they were there, like the grey eyes of Athena. 

I did not expect him to answer, but at last he indulged my curiosity, “Sleep is antithetical to an active mind. When I have a case to ponder, I cannot let it rest, and when I have nothing to occupy my mind I grow restless. Either way, I remain awake,” he concluded with a wry smile.

“At least you could not make such music in your sleep,” I suggested.

He chuckled and shook his head. “I find sleep to be a rather tiresome thing. Were it not a necessity, I doubt I would engage in it at all.”

I could not but agree with him, the memory of my nightmare still gnawing at the back of my mind. It was much more pleasant to be awake, standing in the dark sitting room across from my mysterious flatmate, the whole world asleep aside from us two. Even the busy streets of London were quiet in the dim light of the gas lamps. And in the depths of that peaceful night, I found the man I so admired restless as myself. Oh, there were many things I would rather do than sleep, but I quieted those thoughts lest he read them on my burning face.

And he watched me very intently indeed, as though I were a mystery to solve. A client, perhaps, that had come to him in the middle of the night with an intriguing case. But I brought no such intrigue. As Holmes had said on occasion, “You are like an open book, Watson, and yet…” He never did say what more he saw in me.

I do not know how much time passed in silence, watching one another with open curiosity. Eventually, it was Holmes who broke the silence, picking back up his bow and readying his violin, “Come. The settee should do.”

He waited until I was lain out upon the settee. First, he took a gracious bow, and I applauded as though he were a great maestro taking the stage - I knew he was one better. And then he began to play. I saw his intention almost immediately. The music was all soothing to my tired mind, slow and gentle melodies to ease my nerves and carry me off to sleep. I recognized the first few pieces, and then, as I began to fade, I thought he may have begun to improvise. The music slowly ebbed away and I dreamed I felt the gentle press of his cool lips upon my forehead as I drifted off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend the works of Domina Temporis, on FanFiction.net, one of which inspired this story. They really do a beautiful job of writing Holmes and Watson’s friendship. Their stories feel like missing scenes from the originals.
> 
> I originally posted this story on my Tumblr, vtsuion.tumblr.com, where I post stories like this one, answer questions, and accept writing prompts!


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